I’ll be experimenting with a poem, sharing drafts here each week. Here’s the first draft (yet untitled), written in sonnet form:

A call a ring a buzz a beep

A stress demands response

There is none there, as if asleep.

A wall of pain ensconced.

Not pain of knives so sharp

But pain of life so great

To wake each morn to carp

And look a glass of hate.

The wise man comes too late to help

And bides his patient time.

To see him fight to keep himself

From wasting every climb.

There is no way to sit sublime.